All of Our Flaws
by lastdreamofmysoul
Summary: Antonio is a man whose world revolves around anyone but himself. Lovino is a man with dreams bigger than a job behind a drugstore counter. Antonio is broken; Lovino is incomplete. Will a chance meeting lead them to mending their cracks and finding their missing pieces? Human AU, trigger warning for self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! I've been feeling really down lately due to my recent relapse, so I just wanted to find a way to express myself, I guess. So yeah, here it is! I actually went to the drugstore today to buy more first-aid stuff for myself, so whatever I have written is based on my experience. :) Do let me know if I should continue with the story!

P.S. I might have started on this but I won't be abandoning my other story, Suicide King, just that updates are slow due to the fact that school's started. Thank you for reading, please review/favourite/follow if you like my story. :D

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><p>The familiar sign of the drugstore comes into Antonio's view.<p>

He is used to it by now; used to walking down the same path and going past the same shops, and the tightening in his chest does nothing to slow him down. After all, it has always been there – the way his heart seems to feel heavier as he approaches the drugstore with its shelves of bandages and plasters. Perhaps, in the beginning, his entire mind had once been occupied by flashes of everything – splashes of red and glints of silver – but habit had transformed those into a state of numbness. Habit had changed most of him, apparently. As Antonio approaches the shop, the only thing that he thinks of is whether he will be able to get one of those discounted bundles with two hundred plasters.

He steps into the shop, and his gaze sweeps over the interior emotionlessly. He takes in the advertisements for the latest health supplements stuck onto the cream-coloured walls and the neatly lined-up beauty products before making a beeline for the shelf at the back. Just like he always does.

Antonio scans the rows of first-aid products, feeling the usual passivity take over as he calmly searches for the brand that he normally picks. When he is desperate, he grabs anything, even the ones that are too big to hide and the ones for sensitive skin that stand out, strips of white against his tanned skin. But today is not one of those days. Today Antonio's emotions are a flat line, though he can feel the tension there and he's glad for that because he knows he's got something to unleash later.

Finally, he grabs two boxes and makes a move towards the cashier, feeling a twisted sense of happiness that they did have the discounted bundles with two hundred plasters. He figures two hundred plasters could last him for about a few months, depending. He used to buy gauze and surgical tape, but then it had been too conspicuous and Francis had found out about his "_problem_". That had led to a one-time trip to the therapist and several arguments between them, until Gilbert had stepped in. Antonio sometimes believes that Gilbert might just be the mature one out of them after all.

There is a stranger at the counter, someone Antonio has never seen before. It's not the bored-looking lady, or the fat man with the not-so-well-hidden porn magazines, or the overly-excited girl with the bright pink braces. It's a young man, with auburn hair half-obscuring his face as his attention remains glued to something on his lap. Antonio can guess that the man's drawing something for his hands are moving vigorously back and forth, back and forth, and he stands there for a moment, hypnotized by the light scratching of pencil on paper and captivated by the way the man's nametag catches the light: Lovino, it says, and the monotonous line in his mind peaks as he catches himself thinking about how nice a name it is.

Antonio decides to lean over the counter, and catches a glimpse of what the man is drawing. It's another man; someone tall with dark curls and wearing plain-looking clothes, reaching out for a box – Wait.

The person Lovino has been sketching lets out a breath he had not realised he had been holding, and the other man jerks his head up, shoving the sketchbook and his pencil under the counter in one quick motion.

"Fuck, what do you want?"


	2. Chapter 2

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, following and/or favouriting! I'm back with the second chapter. :D

I have to go for therapy tomorrow, and I'm not looking forward to it. I haven't done anything the school counsellor has asked me to do. I haven't written one happy thing per day and I haven't reflected on my triggers. But fuck it - writing makes me feel at least a percent better, so I'm going to just do it.

Also, well, I wanted to talk a bit more about why I'm writing this - I've been to the drugstore before to buy plasters - and _yes, I have gotten the discounted bundle with two hundred plasters_ (I always get the discounted bundle) - and there was this once when the cashier asked me if I had injured myself. I said no, and told her that I was buying the plasters for my school's first-aid kit. It made me wonder: what if someone was like me, just buying too many first-aid materials and a stranger notices and gets the feeling that the first-aid things aren't actually for what they seemed to be for? Given my over-imaginative mind, I started thinking of a story from there: what if the stranger approached that person and then they actually find a friend in each other? Yeah, I know, it's almost impossible for that to happen in real life. People don't even ask if they notice I always have plasters on my wrist. But hey, if it ever happens to someone I'd be really happy for them, so.

Enjoy!

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><p>The bold defiance in the amber eyes that meet his shocks him, and Antonio takes a step back unconsciously, feeling rising panic in his chest. <em>I shouldn't have looked I shouldn't have looked I should have just stayed out of his way oh god why can't I ever do things right –<em>

"-ey! Are you alright? What's gotten into you?"

Antonio realizes that Lovino is talking to him, his tone clipped and annoyed, and he gives himself three seconds to recover before shaking his head and forcing a smile. "Nothing, I just wanted to buy these."

Lovino glances at the boxes and grunts, flipping them over to scan the barcode, while Antonio notices how the dark blue uniform of the drug store employees brings out Lovino's fair skin and the way his hair falls across his face so smoothly like silk. His own hand reaches up to comb his unruly curls back, but they remain as untamed as ever.

"Why do you need so many plasters anyway?" Lovino's voice carries no unkindness, only a certain curiosity that all employers loathed. Antonio doesn't reply instantly, but instead chooses to observe the way Lovino's thin fingers deposit the boxes into a purple plastic bag.

"I need to replenish my first-aid kit at home," he responds, smiling sheepishly despite how his wrist, safely hidden under the sleeve of his sweater, suddenly feels itchy. When he takes the bag from Lovino, their fingers brush and Antonio swears he feels a surge of something; something different from the anger and sadness and regret he has been feeling for too long a time. He swears that maybe, just for a second, he feels slightly more alive and his heart grows a little lighter – but it's probably just a figment of his imagination.

Lovino arches an eyebrow and leans forwards on his elbows. "Really?"

Antonio makes the mistake of looking into those piercing eyes again, and he gets the feeling that Lovino is the kind of person who would be able to see through lies. But he has been through this before; and he's sure he can do it again.

Antonio straightens up and widens his smile, looking the other man in the eye. _I can do this. I can do this. _He has been an actor for most of his life, and playing the happy-go-lucky guy has been the role he's most talented at. It's all about facial expression and composure; even when he feels like he's going to crumble into pieces inside, he has become a professional at raising his walls back up again. He's a great actor, alright; but behind those velvet curtains and bright smiles of his lie wreckage and ruin. Yet, all the audience ever sees is what is put up for them. All they ever believe is what Antonio chooses to show. The applause given is never for _him_, but for the role he acts out. Occasionally, he muses about how it would be nice for this terribly long show to finally come to an end. After all, people get bored eventually. Such is the sad truth about performers, and such is the sad truth about Antonio Fernández Carriedo.

Of course, he isn't really starring in movies and walking the red carpet; he just likes to think about his life that way. His backstage is really an office in a publishing company, his script is really a bunch of monthly letters sent in by people asking for advice, and his props are really the laptop that he uses to type out his responses in the advice column.

Still, he switches from Antonio the Columnist to Antonio the Actor and replies with a confident "well, there was a discount", covered with a thin layer of mirth that brings the slightest of smiles to Lovino's lips, and Antonio silently congratulates himself.

The cashier snorts, and keeps the notes Antonio passes to him into the cash register. The tray closes with a bang, and Lovino surprises Antonio by grabbing two rectangular boxes from the shelf beside the counter and brandishing them in front of him.

"These are on discount too. Want them?" Lovino is smirking in a way that does weird things to Antonio's stomach, a hint of something in the prolonged emptiness he has felt since _it_ started. The latter reads the labels on the pink boxes: "Pure Ecstasy. Designed for Extra Comfort and Pleasure" and he laughs – not only because it's in his script but also because of how Lovino's cheeks immediately colour, as if he's regretting making such a move.

The brunette puts the boxes back, suddenly bashful, and disappears into a room after muttering something about checking the stock for bandages. Antonio stares at the pencil Lovino has left on the countertop for a few seconds before turning to leave, feeling the hollowness gradually take over again.


	3. Chapter 3

Hellooooo I'm back with the third chapter! Thank you all so, so much for following, reviewing and/or reading; it really means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter; even my horrible attempts at making metaphors.

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><p>Antonio is in one of those moods again. Not the ones when he feels incredibly philosophical and starts wondering about life after death, and not the ones when he gets all scientific and starts calculating the minimum height it takes to fall from in order to get his answer to what happens to people after their eyes are shut for the final time.<p>

Antonio has always been good at Physics. He has always been good at the universe, really – he understands electrostatics and kinematics, and he knows that Newton's Third Law states that there is an equal and opposite reaction for every action, meaning that if he were to hit the ground the ground would push back at him; push back all of his mistakes and flaws and memories until he would just be an empty case, sprawled across the concrete.

Sometimes Antonio asks himself why he had not chosen to become a physicist instead. Maybe things would have been better. Maybe he would not have met _her_ then.

But alas, Antonio is a people-person. The universe draws him towards it; everyone he meets exerting some sort of pull on him. He doesn't try to fight back. He never does. His thoughts are forever filled with names that are not his, problems of other people that he ought to be solving just because he thinks they're the only problems worth solving. Even after _her_, he still can't escape. It has always been _them, them, them_, and the moment he pauses and thinks _me_, everything seems to fall apart and the next thing he knows he's sitting on the toilet seat watching his own blood stain the tiles.

As he stops in front of the elevator, it's _them_ again, and he observes everyone getting inside. The editor from the level below his, the cleaner, the cafeteria cooks… He stands there, finger on the button, even though he was the first one reaching the silver doors. No one stops to thank him, and when the cleaning lady smiles and waves in his direction, he cracks a smile back, only to turn and realize that she has been looking at the man behind him.

Antonio immediately looks at his shoes, fingers digging into his palm as the elevator door closes and he steps back, soles carelessly sliding across the polished floor. Strike One.

He's in one of those moods when he feels like he's standing on a tightrope with no safety net below, arms stretched out in a feeble attempt to balance himself. There is an audience below – and he sees Francis and Gilbert at the side.

"You can do it, Antonio!" Francis cheers, and Gilbert gives a whoop, but when Antonio's not looking he's sure they mutter, "He's not going to make it."

The center seats are always given to the strangers. Today, the cleaning lady is a new member, and Antonio mentally seats her at the front with the man she was waving at.

The elevator doors close and he leans against the railing, taking a step forwards on his tightrope. He's alone, and as he watches the numbers increase he mentally prepares himself – puts a smile onto his face, bounces around on the balls of his heels a little, stands slightly taller. He draws on his energy reserves, and by the time the doors open, he can take large, energetic strides out. A woman in a tight-bun bumps into him and shoots him a glare. Strike Two.

In the air, Antonio is starting to wobble. On the tenth floor of the publishing company, Antonio scans his identity card and pulls open the door with practiced bravado.

Strike Three happens when he uses up the remaining coffee powder and a bleary-eyed Lukas steps into the pantry, empty cup in hand.

Strike Four, when he sees the letters on his desk. Wait, there is one thanking him.

_"Thank you, Toni; for the advice. I have patched things up with my parents, and life is looking a lot brighter now." _

He might take away Strike Four. Might.

By the end of the day, Antonio has more than ten strikes and a stack of finished letters and drafts. He has chosen a few for the column, those that he thinks people are more likely to be able to relate to. His boss has told him countless times that he only needs to respond to those that he will use for the magazine, but Antonio writes back to all of them anyway. He puts a little bit of his emotions into them; just a little bit because he doesn't want to open the flood gates, and churns out letters that for some reason bring him grateful replies and even more letters asking for advice. Antonio says that he's just doing what he ought to do, but that only makes the other writers gush on and on about his humbleness.

Antonio doesn't like it when people praise him, but he always answers back with easy smiles anyway.

Stretching and getting up from his chair, Antonio puts on his jacket and gathers his things. His desk is sparse except for his computer and a few random files. A corkboard has been stuck to the partition between him and Elizabeta, and reminders have been pinned on with tomato-shaped thumbtacks. A few photos have also been included, one a group photo with his colleagues, one with Francis and Gilbert. All of them feature the present. The other colleagues have photos of their younger selves, photos of college days and previous vacations to conserve as memories, but Antonio already has the past in front of him without needing any pictures. The past, to him, is still far too fresh to forget.

Elizabeta has left long ago, and Antonio slings his bag over his shoulder, taking a quick glance around the office. Francis is still at his desk, thin fingers rapidly flying over his keyboard as he rushes his draft. He's in charge of the fashion column with Feliks, and their draft is due the next day.

"Bye, Francis," Antonio calls out, pushing his chair in.

The Frenchman pauses his typing and swivels around. Antonio can almost see him calculating in his head, scrolling through every list he has seen on the Google search results for "warning signs of suicide".

"See you tomorrow," he decides to add on, and Francis' face flashes with relief.

"See you." Francis gives a playful wave back, a slight wriggling of his tired fingers that makes Antonio laugh, then retract back to a forced grin when his friend continues, "Take care, okay? Call me if you need anything."

Antonio nods and chirps back an "I will" that he knows is not going to happen because Strike Twenty occurred the moment Francis had spun around with a hint of annoyance at being disturbed.

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><p>When he reaches home, a voice in his head chimes, "Strikeout, Antonio!" and he finally falls.<p>

He hears the audience's clapping as he picks up the blade.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello everyone! How's it going? I'm back with the 4th chapter! Thank you for reading/following/favouriting/reviewing so far, it really means a lot.

This chapter features a relatively graphic self-harm scene, just after the "~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~", so please don't read it if it's triggering for you. The last thing I want to do is to trigger someone, so please, please, **please** skip it or let me know if you find it too triggering. This chapter's about something that I've been through last week - I couldn't stand the stress and did _it_ in the school toilet cubicle but then suddenly my friends came in and there I was with blood on my fingers and they were right outside joking around. In my opinion, it's one of the worst feelings in the world.

Anyway, this is kind of random but I was thinking of starting up this RP blog (well, not really RP but yeah) on Tumblr to give advice to people as APH Spain! I've seen .com (it's a great blog, go check it out!), which has helped me in many ways so I was thinking that it'd be great to have more of such blogs around. Do let me know what you think of this idea of mine; I've never done RP before so I'm really scared about trying it out because I'm afraid I'll screw up. :( Plus, I can't design icons and stuff for nuts. ;_;

Alright, I'll stop talking for now. I hope I described this chapter perfectly; my brain has been dead recently but I really needed to let all the tension from this week out. Enjoy!

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><p>It is Gilbert's idea to visit the new Italian restaurant, and Antonio tries his best not to drag his feet. According to his friend, the restaurant will be opening that day and they ought to go because Gilbert's brother's boyfriend will be there.<p>

"This is the perfect excuse to finally see who West has been hiding from me!" Gilbert exclaims excitedly, using the nickname that he has stuck to Ludwig ever since their parents first mentioned that they behaved as if they were opposite ends of a line.

Now, standing outside a charming restaurant with wine-red drapes, Antonio glances at his watch, and internally questions the existence of lunchtime and Italian restaurants conveniently located near their company. Externally, he laughs and comments, "I'm sure he's just worried you'll steal his boyfriend away."

Outside, the restaurant does not appear special, with garden chairs and tables covered with dark red velvet. But once through the doors, Antonio lets out a small gasp.

The interior is ten times more impressive: there are wooden chairs, each upholstered with a different coloured fabric – green, red or white, the colours of the Italian flag. Fairy lights adorn shelves of ornaments of famous Italian landmarks, paintings featuring landscapes decorate the cream-coloured walls, and there is even a small stage with a standing microphone. Beside him Gilbert whistles, and Antonio smells something that makes his stomach growl. It's tomatoes and cheese and peppers, and that can possibly mean pizza or pasta or something else entirely, but everything seems like an appealing option.

In fact, Antonio's so caught up with the restaurant that he fails to notice the people. _People_, literally everywhere. Sitting at the tables, standing with glasses of wine, laughing and shaking hands… A wave of panic seizes his heart and he unconsciously tugs at his sleeves, only momentarily relieved that he has his backup plan in his pocket.

"Gilbert, what are you doing here?" A deep voice is suddenly heard, and Antonio sees Gilbert's brother Ludwig approaching them, usually stoic face flashing with irritation at the sight of his brother. He nods curtly in acknowledgement at Antonio, sending them a look that seems to say that he will only bother with formalities after dealing with Gilbert, who does not reciprocate his frown but breaks into a large grin.

"Of course I'm here to see whose ass you've been up all this time! Look at how much my baby brother has grown up…" Gilbert wipes a false tear from his eye and sniffs, ignoring the blush that spreads rapidly across Ludwig's cheeks.

"Please don't do anything stupid," Ludwig sighs and combs his hair back, a sign of exasperation. "Today's an important day for Feliciano–"

"Oooooh, so his name's Feliciano?" Gilbert teases triumphantly, to Ludwig's dismay. "Francis?"

Unfortunately for him, Francis has long left their side. Antonio spies their friend at the far end of the restaurant, talking to two women who are hanging on to his every word.

"We'll hunt him down," Gilbert whispers in Antonio's ear.

Antonio responds earnestly, "Okay! I'll get Francis." He smiles promisingly at Gilbert, and then politely at Ludwig, who looks like he's going to die of embarrassment. Antonio makes his way through the crowd, feeling his insides squirm uncomfortably each time he has to squeeze between people. Some people shoot him glares and make noises of annoyance; once again little strikes that Antonio tries to push to the back of his mind because he's here for his friends and he wants to be able to put up a good show.

Unfortunately, he's ambushed by someone. Someone whom he has not seen since he left his last job. Someone whom he never thought, nor wanted, to see again.

It's Sadiq, one of his ex-colleagues. While Antonio had been put in charge of the support groups for teenagers, Sadiq held one-to-one sessions, and until now Antonio has never stopped wondering how a person like him would ever work as a therapist. Sure, from Antonio's experience, Sadiq could be nice to his clients, but not exactly the same to his colleagues.

"Antonio? That you?" Sadiq looks the same, with the same dark hair, the same taunting eyes and the same leer that he always worn when talking to Antonio. The Spaniard has never liked him, not just because of how superficial Sadiq can be but also because of how Sadiq has always had the ability to make him feel incredibly small.

Seeing his old co-worker, Antonio instinctively takes a step back. He can already feel himself shrinking inwards, walls shooting up and hand slowly reaching into his pocket, fumbling for the case. Yet, he can't let Sadiq have the satisfaction, so he forces himself to straighten up and sends back a greeting that is thinly laced with hostility.

"How's it been? I heard you're working as a columnist now. What are you writing about?" Sadiq pats Antonio hard on the shoulder; an unwelcome gesture that brings a pained smile to the latter's face.

"I'm fine, thanks." Antonio's voice sounds strangled as his mind starts the countdown. _60, 59, 58…_ He can hang in there for a while more. "I give advice."

The way Sadiq's eyebrows arch makes Antonio quicken his counting. "Advice?" he says incredulously. "How much do you get paid? What did they offer you that made you leave the institute?"

Antonio's hand clasps firmly around the case. He can feel the blades within them, just behind the plastic. He can visualize the metal; the sharp glint of the edges, just slightly stained red from previous times. He's got his backup plan in his hand now.

"Well, the institute changed a lot after you and Emma left. Oh yes, Emma's birthday is coming, isn't it? We're celebrating it and I was wondering if you'd like to join us–"

Sadiq's voice has taken a turn from mocking to plain cruel, and the mention of her name stabs Antonio in the chest. He feels his heartbeat quicken, feels himself suck in air and the adrenaline starting to course through his veins. _10, 9 no I can't do this anymore_ –

He mutters a quick excuse, and he's off.

He doesn't hear himself asking where the toilet is, doesn't feel the solid wood beneath his shoes, doesn't smell the wafting fragrance of pizza baking in the oven. Everything has blended into _too loud too noisy too crowded need to cut need to cut __**need to cut**_ - Like a radio playing the same thing over and over again. Broken.

Antonio hates the radio. He wants to pull it out and throw it against the wall, just to make the voices stop. Everyone has their own radio, but Antonio can never manage to tune his. No matter how much he spins the dials, every station emits the same kind of message.

_You should go kill yourself._

Spin.

_The post should have gone to him instead._

Spin.

_You failed to save her._

Spin. Spin. Spin.

_Failure. Useless. Worthless. _

And then there's that one voice, the one that's always in the background, chanting away. _Cut, cut, cut, deeper, deeper, deeper, more, more, more_. Antonio fears that voice the most, because it's the one that he's most familiar with.

It's his.

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><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Antonio flings open the door and walks briskly in, pretending that he's merely someone urgently going to relieve himself after too much wine. The two cubicles inside are empty, and he enters one, not even pausing for a moment to hesitate. Despite his haste, the door is shut slowly and gently, not because Antonio is rethinking but because he <em>knows<em> and he's prepared and anticipating.

Down on the toilet seat, up with his sleeves. Out with the case, out with the blade.

It's an all-too familiar routine, and Antonio rests the blade onto his thigh before closing the case, taking comfort in the cold metal.

He can hear Sadiq's words again. He can hear her name, and he can see her face.

_"I'm not feeling well so I'm taking a few days off." _

Antonio picks up the blade again and holds it between his fingers.

_"Finally! I'm back! Look, I've got a few things for you guys since I'm moving house…"_

He presses the edge against his arm. Feeling the sharpness dig in; feeling the indent it forms.

_"Yes, these are mine! You said you liked this sweater a while ago, so I'm giving it to you now!" _

He holds it there for a little while longer, imagining that the blade is not merely sinking into his skin but also into his mind. Imagining that it's bearing into entangled vines of flaws and mistakes and bad memories.

_"Goodbye, everyone! Goodbye, Antonio!"_

He can feel his skin begin to sting.

_"Goodbye."_

He pulls. The pain is numbing, at first, and Antonio's not satisfied. There's something bubbling in his chest – _desperation_ – and his entire being is screaming for more. _Deeper, more, deeper_ –

Antonio brings the blade back, presses it down, and pulls again. He watches his skin tear, watches the blood start to form in droplets.

_No. It's not enough._ There is a gape in his skin now, and blood is starting to fill it up. Dark, dark blood, gathering at the corner of the cut, a drop increasing in size that threatens to fall.

A quick dab with toilet paper saves the floor from getting stained, and Antonio shifts, before bringing the blade to his arm again. There is a thirst for destruction in him, a thirst that rears its ugly head and fills him with a twisted determination to destroy none other then himself.

_I'm sick._ Another cut, and the brief flash of pain that occurs at the initial breaking of skin returns. _I'm disgusting I'm doing this in a new restaurant oh god –_

But he doesn't stop after two. The metal rips into his flesh once again, until there are three gaping wounds and the tissue Antonio has been using is nearly completely stained red. _It's never going to be enough._

And then the door outside swings open, and Antonio freezes because a voice belonging to someone familiar drifts in.

"Sure, Eliza. You can count on your awesome friend!"

It's as if Gilbert's voice shocks Antonio out of his trance, because immediately his entire being is focused on not making a sound. He listens as Gilbert shuffles over to the sinks and running water is heard. The sole door between him and Gilbert suddenly seems too thin, and Antonio quickly lifts his feet off the floor. He presses the tissue to his fresh cuts, feeling the dampness of his blood underneath.

He can imagine Gilbert's disappointed face already. To have his best friend hurting himself just a metre away without him knowing.

"I'm sorry," Antonio would choke out.

"Don't apologize to me. The only person you're letting down is yourself."

_I'm sorry, Gilbert. I've always let everyone down. _

Gilbert has told him again and again to stop apologizing for everything, but Antonio still feels that even a million apologies will never make up for his existence. He is an error, a glitch in this universe that's meant for better people. A waste of space made of mere matter and nothing else. Nothing useful, really, and Antonio feels the need to apologise for that.

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><p>He waits until Gilbert is out of the toilet, before he finally exhales.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for reading! 25 follows is a lot for me; so thank you so, so much for your support. I hope that you all are doing well too. Please remember to take care of yourselves! This might sound really random but I guess some of us (myself included) do need such reminders.

Anyway! I hope I portrayed Lovino alright here; I'm still having a bit of trouble portraying him so I hope I haven't made him too OOC or anything. :( Also, it's currently the Chinese New Year festival from where I'm at, so we're visiting relatives and all that haha. To be honest, I don't really like Chinese New Year because there's so much socialising to do and it tires me out. I feel guilty when I say I'd rather stay at home then go visiting, though. Still, I'm 4 days clean woohoo! I hope you enjoy this chapter; I've been wanting to write it for ages.

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><p>After Gilbert's voice fades and Antonio is left to himself, he feels the familiar numbness returning and all of his feelings gradually fading away into the same, dull line. He finds appreciation in the slight throbbing on his arms and how the hurried thoughts in his head slow down with the spreading blood, and it feels like all of his body is calming down – all that he is made of is returning to Earth, slowly taking root again. The floor suddenly feels secure beneath his feet, the walls suddenly don't feel as close, and the noise from outside suddenly doesn't seem as loud.<p>

Amongst his subsiding emotions, Antonio tastes light, sweet relief, and though he knows the world will not have changed ever since he entered the toilet, he knows that he will be a bit more ready to face it when he steps out. He feels his shoulders relax, and he closes his eyes and just _breathes_; inhales in the vague scent of roses from the air freshener and precious oxygen, and when he exhales again he lets out not just air but the tension that has clasped his entire being as well. It's the coming down after a high, the smooth downwards curve of a graph already marked with anxiety peaks and depression lows.

Antonio wipes the blade with toilet paper, and balances it on top of the toilet paper holder, before pulling out the sweet box in which he keeps his plasters in. He cleans the blood off once more, before unwrapping the plasters and carefully placing the absorbent pads over each wound. Then, noticing that blood is starting to darken the strips, places more adhesive bandages just to be safe. He wraps the discarded paper packages in which the plasters have been taken from in toilet paper and puts it into his pocket, making a mental reminder to throw it later.

The blade is returned to its case, the sweet box closed and the bloody tissues flushed down the toilet bowl – Antonio observes how the water tinges with red before disappearing – and his sleeve tugged down, and Antonio stands up and gives the cubicle a once-over, mentally checking off the list of things that he might have left behind. _Blade? Check. Plasters? Check._ Taking one last deep breath, he unlocks the door and steps out, for the first time noticing the tiled pattern on the walls and the golden shell of the wide mirror in front of two marble sinks. There is a potted plant in the middle of the sinks, its leaves catching in the light.

Antonio sees his reflection in the mirror, and immediately walks to the sink to wash away the shadows left on his face by what he has done behind the cubicle door. He can feel that his initial relief is stained by something else – guilt, and he splashes the ice-cold water onto his face in an attempt to wash it away.

At that moment, the door opens and Antonio freezes, in case it's Gilbert or Francis or Ludwig, but then the person heads to the sink beside him and Antonio catches a glimpse of the other in the mirror. It's neither of them, but as Antonio reaches over to pull a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe the moisture off his face, he recognizes the person.

It's the cashier at the drugstore, the one with the soft auburn-hair and the bold amber eyes.

Antonio searches his mind for a name, and the memories flood back: two boxes of plasters, a sketchbook, a sketch of _him_…

_Lovino_, his mind manages to spew out, and like the first time his heart beats slightly faster, but he's sure it's just because humans like beautiful things and Lovino has a certain beauty about him that Antonio's sure everyone else notices too. The cashier looks up and catches Antonio's eye, fierce amber meeting bright green and flickering in recognition.

"Hey, aren't you the guy who bought two boxes of plasters? What are you doing here?" Lovino is the first one who speaks, and Antonio notices that the other has been using a moist paper towel to wipe off a purplish stain on his white dress shirt.

"Well… My friend kind dragged me here because he wanted to meet his brother's boyfriend," Antonio explains lamely, scratching the back of his head and unconsciously taking a step back because as much as Lovino seems to exert a pull on him to stay and talk, guilt is also tugging at the back of his mind to leave and go.

"Wait a minute." Lovino's eyes narrow in suspicion. "What's the name of your friend's brother's boyfriend?" He places an emphasis on "boyfriend", as if waiting in anticipation for something.

"I haven't met him yet, but I think his name sounds something like…" Antonio thinks for a moment and recalls Ludwig mentioning it. "Feliciano?"

Lovino slams the paper towel onto the edge of the sink, throwing his head back and groaning. "Argh I can't believe this is happening!"

Antonio glances at the stain on Lovino's shirt and then contemplates offering a handkerchief to him, when Lovino looks at him again and says, "I can't decide if I should say that it's a small world or curse the potato bastard for bringing more bastards into our life."

Antonio doesn't understand him, and responds with a quizzical look. "Feliciano's my brother," Lovino groans again and explains exasperatedly, as if the mention of his brother brings back many bad memories. "He owns this restaurant."

Antonio wants to ask why Lovino is working in a drugstore and not in his brother's restaurant, but then decides against it when he sees the scowl on Lovino's face. He's known for being thick-headed at times, but for some reason when around Lovino he wants to tread on eggshells and choose his words carefully.

But most importantly, he still wants to know why Lovino was drawing him that day.

"Gilbert's Ludwig's brother," Antonio adds on, and immediately annoyance flashes across Lovino's face.

"That loud German? Oh god I wish he hadn't come.

Antonio feels the need to defend his friend, despite the gnawing guilt that strengthens at the mention of Gilbert's name, and says, "Gilbert's my friend."

And then, afraid of sounding far too defensive and rude, Antonio quickly follows, "He isn't that bad once you get to know him."

"Oh really? Then how about the blond one? Stupid bastard tried to hit on me and ended up spilling wine onto my shirt…"

Antonio can imagine Francis doing so, and he chuckles, feeling his heart sink at how obvious the nervousness in his laugh is. "That's just Francis being Francis."

Then, he thinks about the times when Francis and Gilbert have comforted him and defended him against prying eyes too curious about peeking bandages and long sleeves, and he continues, "They aren't that bad, really."

Lovino snorts. "We'll see about that. And you don't happen to have a handkerchief, do you?"

Antonio fumbles in his back pocket and pulls out the striped fabric, which Lovino accepts with a muttered "thank you" and uses to dab over the stain. "You don't seem as bad, though," he says, before hastily adding, his cheeks starting to colour, "I-I mean! You're just not as loud and rude. But your friends are just exceptionally obnoxious. Okay you know what, I'm just going to get a new shirt from the car…"

And then Lovino rushes out the toilet before Antonio can even point out that his handkerchief is still with him.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading! 30 follows is a big deal for me, especially since I'm still really new to fanfiction writing and all. So thank **you**, really.

This chapter is mainly focused on Lovino, and I actually wrote it twice because I'm having quite a bit of a problem writing Lovino's character so I really hope this part is alright. Also, the tense in this chapter is kind of weird, so I apologise for that too. ;_; Another thing is, this is my first time writing such a story too so I'm really worried about whether I'm romanticizing suicide/depression in anyway so if I am doing so, please do let me know!

On a side note, things have been going pretty alright for me so far right now and I'll be giving therapy another shot, so yeah. Please don't worry about me everyone, and please take care of yourselves too. Have a great day! 3

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><p>Lovino only rediscovers the striped handkerchief when he collapses onto the couch. He leans against the fabric and groans at the ceiling, covering his face with his hand and silently letting the events of the day flash past in glimpses in his brain. <em>Feliciano's new restaurant, Feliciano's annoying guests, Feliciano's even <em>_**more**__ annoying boyfriend_ (argh, Lovino couldn't stand the mere sight of that bastard), _Feliciano's –_

"Fratello! You hungry?"

The throbbing in Lovino's head worsens with the sound of his hyperactive brother's voice, all filled with too much excitement and cheerfulness as usual. He leans forwards and massages his temples, yelling back to his brother in the kitchen, "No! Haven't we eaten enough already?"

"But I want to try this new recipe out! Francis said that if I added wine it might make it more –"

"Don't mention that bastard's name again! He fucking ruined my favourite shirt…" Lovino grumbles the last part to himself and adjusts his position on the couch, slightly sulking at the thought of his stained shirt now lying in the laundry basket. He feels something in his back pocket and reaches for it, feeling the touch of fabric beneath his fingers. He pulls the handkerchief out, its light blue now slightly tinged purple, and whatever happened in the toilet comes back to him.

By some odd twist of fate, he had met the same man he had seen in the drugstore just two weeks ago, and he had found out that that same man also happened to be a friend of the two troublemakers who had kept on teasing Feliciano and Ludwig. This was definitely a more surprising realization than the revelation that the potato bastard had fantastic _connections_, for the man in the drugstore did not and still does not strike Lovino as someone as boisterous and shameless as his apparent cronies. The two times Lovino had seen him, the latter had seemed entirely absorbed in a world of his own – he had observed his customer making a beeline for the first-aid shelves as if there had been nothing else in the world but him and discounted boxes of plasters, and when he had entered the toilet he had noticed the way the other had been keeping his head down as though the ice cold water splashing against his face had been the only thing that existed.

Observing people has always been one of Lovino's skills, and one of his favourite things to do. To him, most people always fail to notice the little things about others; the things that really matter. Like how his usually grumpy colleague has begun humming "Love Story" ever since the handsome barrista started working in the nearby café, even though she always goes on about how she hates love songs. Or how the old woman living next door always lingers at her doorway before closing the door, with eyes deteriorated with age that somehow still manage to remain fixated on the stairs in the fruitless expectancy of someone who will no longer come home.

He still does not know the tanned stranger's name, but there had been something about him that had drawn Lovino in; that had led to Lovino surreptitiously reaching for his sketchbook and putting lead to paper. The stranger had had a nice physique (though Lovino will never admit it), but that had not been what had moved Lovino's hand across the paper. He had watched as the stranger scanned the shelves, hair falling slightly across his face in soft mocha curls, and the way the taller man had reached out and took the boxes had seem mechanical, as if it had been part of a routine. Lovino had never seen anyone move like that before, and it made him curious as to how someone could be so interested in boxes of plasters. When the stranger had finally come to the counter and Lovino had shoved his sketchbook roughly away and caught sight of the _most striking emerald eyes _ever, he had had a sudden flashback.

The customer had taken a step back, eyes flickering with something that had verged on panic momentarily before dissolving into cool calmness and a bright smile, but it had brought back a certain memory of cracked nail polish and dainty fingers wrapped around a mug. For just a second, Lovino had thought of _someone_, someone with a sunny smile that had not quite reached her chartreuse eyes. Or had her eyes been blue? Lovino had not been sure, and he had stopped trying to remember upon catching a glimpse of his customer pushing his curly hair back, only messing it up further. The Italian's cheeks had suddenly felt a little hotter, and Lovino had quickly fired back with a question but the slight brush of skin against skin and the stranger's apologetic smile had been enough to make Lovino feel horribly aware of how unflattering his uniform must have made him look.

The stranger's response had been amusing, for _who actually bought so many plasters for the sake of a discount?_ Nevertheless, it had brought the telltale signs of laughter up Lovino's throat – the familiar bubbling that Lovino had quickly suppressed with a snort.

_But why the hell did he have to pull the condom boxes out?_ Lovino had been berating himself on it ever since. It had been a rash move on his part, but for what? To impress the stranger with his sense of humor? The other had laughed, a hearty chuckling that had made Lovino feel slightly dizzy and his cheeks burn even more because _it had been such a nice sound_, and Lovino had ran away.

_Fuck, why do I always run away from everything? _

The second time had been the same. Lovino had been pleasantly surprised about how much of a coincidence it had been, especially since the day in the drugstore when he had emerged from the backroom finding his customer long gone had left a slight disappointment in his heart. He had gone back to work and told himself to forget about the stranger, for it had been just _another_ customer with _another_ handsome smile and _another_ delightful laugh and they had just happened to meet; that was all. But they had encountered each other again, and it had been a wonderful coincidence that Lovino had escaped on impulse. Again.

Upon seeing that the person washing his face in front of the mirrors was someone familiar and, more importantly, it was a _certain_ someone, Lovino had once again become painfully aware the ugly stain on his chest and how ridiculous he must have seemed until he had noticed the wet patch on the top of the not-quite-stranger's own dress shirt, courtesy of its wearer's own vigorous splashing and _why the heck did he care anyway_. Again, the other had looked a little lost, his entire face spelling out his discomfort regarding crowded opening days. Lovino had discovered that the other was Spanish, from the lilt in his accent. But there had also been something else that Lovino had noticed: the other man had looked almost… Guilty. It had been an expression that Lovino had recognized, for he had seen it on Feliciano whenever he told a lie and in his own reflection, whenever he snapped at someone.

Lovino couldn't quite figure it out, but it had occurred to him that apparently, even water had been unable to wash off whatever the stranger's expression had worn.

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><p>And now Lovino has his handkerchief. Which he does not mind keeping, actually, as long as it reminds him of the way a certain Spaniard's hair was slightly flattened by water – <em>wait, no<em>, with his newfound discovery of Feliciano's boyfriend's "acquaintances", he might be able to return the favour. And maybe, a small part of him also hopes that he will see the other man again.


End file.
